The Meaning of a Handshake
by Lovely Grey Eyes
Summary: Draco had never made his own friends before. But he was eleven now, and was going to Hogwarts. He would show his father that he was very capable of being independent and choosing his own friendships by making his very first friend in the famous Harry Potter. OR The handshake on the train, as seen by Draco Malfoy. Oneshot.


**Hello all, LGE here! I just wanted to get out this little thing that I wrote. I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer: You all should know that I don't own the characters, or even really the plot for this one, seeing as I just wrote a scene from the book in Draco's POV. Also, seeing as it is a scene from the book, I did take some dialogue and description from the book as well, and I don't own that either. Thanks!**

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Draco Malfoy walked down the train, taking care that he didn't seem as though he was rushing. He was about to meet Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. This wasn't something to mess up. Not that there was anything to mess up. He was a Malfoy, a pureblood elite. His family had money and political influence. There was no way Potter would reject him as an ally, or a friend. Still, Draco felt nervous despite himself. Stopping in front of the compartment door, he took a deep, shaky breath and wiped his clammy hands on his expensive robes. Crabbe and Goyle shuffled stupidly behind him, obviously not realizing that Draco, as a Very Important Wizard, needed a moment to compose himself before offering friendship. He had never made his own friends before. All of his current acquaintances were introduced through his parents, and any friendships were with other like-minded, proper wizards and were also encouraged by his father.

But he was eleven now, and was going to Hogwarts. He would show his father that he was very capable of being independent and choosing his own friendships by making his very first friend in Harry Potter. His father seemed to be of the opinion that Potter was not a proper wizard, but Draco was of the belief that any pureblood (excluding blood traitors, squibs, and muggle-lovers, of course) were proper wizards, or could become proper wizards at the very least through the right influence. And Draco, being a Malfoy, was obviously the best person to educate Potter on the workings of the proper wizarding world.

"Uh, Draco?" Goyle grunted, "Are we gonna go inside?"

"Yes, of course we are," Draco snapped at the perfect example of why his father should not pick his friends, "Did you think we would come all this way just to stop here?"

"Uh, no? I mean I was jus-"

Draco interrupted Goyle's idiotic mumblings by yanking open the compartment door and stepping inside, flanked by Crabbe and an irritated Goyle. He had to fight down a reaction when he saw who was in the compartment, however. It was a Weasley, talking Quidditch to a small, bespectacled boy with unruly black hair. Obviously Weasley was not Potter, which would leave the unruly-haired boy to be the Boy-Who-Lived. But it couldn't be, for Draco recognized the boy from the robe shop!

This would be more difficult than Draco had originally anticipated. Potter had not seemed very amicable in the robe shop, and had left Draco to do most of the talking during their conversation. It was incredibly awkward, and Draco promised himself that this conversation would be much less one-sided, if he had anything to do about it.

"Is it true?" he asked, trying to hide his nervousness, "They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment. So it's you, it it?"

"Yes," said Potter, but he wasn't looking at Draco. He was looking at Crabbe and Goyle. That wouldn't do, Draco was better than them.

"Oh, this is Crabbe and Goyle," Draco tried to sound careless, like he wasn't subtly pointing out the idiots' lack of manners, "And my name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

The Weasley snickered, and tried to hide it in a cough. Draco was obviously incensed. He was always a little sore about the fact that his mother chose to name him after a constellation. And that it was a _Weasley_ who was laughing at him, and his father had always told him that he was better than everyone, especially the Weasleys. So he did something he would later regret. He lost his temper.

He rounded on the red haired boy, who stopped sniggering almost immediately. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."

He turned back to Potter. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

He held out his hand to shake after subtly wiping his sweaty palms against his robes. Potter didn't take it. It was then that Draco realized how badly he had messed up.

"I can tell the who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks," he said coolly.

Draco could feel his cheeks warm despite himself. He tried to cover it up by puffing out his chest and attempting to look intimidating.

"I'd be careful if I were you, Potter," he said slowly. "Unless you're a bit politer you'll go the same way as your parents. They didn't know what was good for them, either. You hang around with riffraff like the Weasleys and that Hagrid, and it'll rub off on you." Draco tried to squash the little voice in him that was screaming that he was going about this the wrong way, that he came here to make friends, not to insult a boy's dead parents. The voice fell silent when the two boys stood up and a brief wave of fear caused Draco's mind to still.

"Say that again," said the Weasel, his face turning the same unattractive color as his hair.

"Oh, you're going to fight us, are you?" Draco sneered at the boy and his faded, patched robes. There was no way that this cack-handed clot would be able to take on Crabbe and Goyle.

"Unless you get out now," said Potter, rather bravely. He would end up in Gryffindor, most definitely. But Draco was a Malfoy, and would not leave just because someone told him to.

"But we don't feel like leaving, do we boys?" And, just to make sure that Crabbe and Goyle would stay as well, he added, "We've eaten all our food and you still seem to have some."

As expected, Goyle reached forward for the Chocolate Frogs- his favourites- but Weasley lept forward and Goyle gave out a yell before the Weasel even so much as touched him. Draco was momentarily disappointed, he hadn't thought Goyle to be such a coward, but then he saw Weasley's nasty rat hanging off of Goyle's finger. Draco and Crabbe backed away as Goyle swung scabbers round and round, howling, until the rat finally flew off and hit the window with a thump. The three of them quickly retreated to the relative safety of the corridor.

Draco felt strange emotions welling up inside of him, and decided that he didn't want two gormless muppets there as he dealt with them. So, bottling his emotions, he made a strategical retreat.

"I'm off to the loo." The hulking boys grunted something at him, and he hastened off for the lavatory.

Once inside, and after checking that he had locked the door, he let the emotions loose. Draco's eyes prickled with hot tears, and he took a deep breath, determined to not let them fall. All he had wanted was to befriend the famous Harry Potter to show his father how independent he could be. Now instead of being proud of him, Lucius would be disappointed. His father would be ashamed at his senseless, obvious insults and his lack of self-control.

This was all Potter's fault, Draco thought, conveniently forgetting that it was Ronald Weasley who had first made him angry. If Potter hadn't ignored him in favor of his goons that had been assigned to him, if he had defended him against the rude Weasley boy, if he hadn't been the indifferent boy from the robe shop who seemed to not know how to hold a proper conversation, then Draco's father would be proud of him. But because Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, thought himself too good to accept the friendship of the scion of the greatest pureblood in Hogwarts, his father would be angry at him.

Draco's father was often disappointed that his only child wasn't a very good Malfoy, and had even once said that was why he was named per the Black family tradition. And, as warm, salty tears broke free and ran down his cheeks, Draco agreed, remembering his father's stern face, telling him that Malfoys do not fail, and Malfoys most certainly do not cry. But today, Draco had done both.


End file.
